streetlights from tomorrow
what we are scared of we don’t know — how to be scared — who to be scared of — and why this wretched day has come to slide off our backs — the hot grill of a Sunday barbeque — sizzling meat in the glaring light of day — and we stand still, in the pinpoint of the universe — the centre of the living room — and behold the stillness of our gaze in the handheld mirror — something akin to rotting flesh — coloured and discoloured — the imperceptible smell and smile — somebody enjoys this — and exchange one look with her — and know that she is crying — and we are screaming — and still we lie still on the hot grill — awaiting the enclosure — the invisible hand is not really there at all — and the fire catches itself — fireball!— no one to save us now — no one to save us then — no one to ever save us — waiting for the day to — slow — so slow —relent and forgive — and the streetlights of tomorrow come to offer a moment of cold indifference — why shouldn’t we be scared?
respite.
complimented with coffee — and baguette by the sun-rinsed park — talking about men and boys and slightly about literature — plenty of tobacco to go around and two rounds — the sun faded out by smoke and it doesn’t hurt so much — when starting to lose it somebody would offer one more — and so smoke one more — then reading by the shivering daylight — uncertain about something — thoughtless naps on the sofa — twisted at the most unnatural angle — waiting to be called on to its final destination by the final voice — it is mangled so it is beautiful — Cocktails by the odd night — overlooking the cemented park — and morgue-white lights flood the football field — not a ball — half a shoe — this emptiness exposed — holds something we cannot name — but the knowledge of it shelters us in the safety of this singular drink — doubled — limed — extra protection — another and another smoke — then a movie — walking home in midnight freezing and laughing thinking about tomorrow — past the unseeing streetlights, unseeing — coming into painful memory every eight steps — warm shower and chocolate — artificial sunset yellow penetrates the dark — and tomorrow shall never come.
